Beetlejuice Beetlejuice — Tim Burton Shits the Bed Again—With Style

Thirty-six years. That’s how long it took Tim Burton to screw up the same character that, back in 1988, crowned him the king of goth chic. Beetlejuice Beetlejuice isn’t a sequel—it’s a botched exorcism. The director tries to cast out his creative demons but ends up possessed by the worst of them all: nostalgia syndrome. Warner Bros., that franchise-squeezing machine, greenlit this project with the same logic a kid uses to demand dessert before dinner: because they can, because the audience will swallow it. And swallow it they do. But what comes back up tastes like disappointment with a side of cheap déjà vu.

The problem isn’t that Burton has aged—we all have, even directors who still dress like teenagers at a funeral. The problem is that his style, once revolutionary, now reeks of mothballs and self-remakes. The overhead shots of Winter River, that palette of rotting greens and electric pinks, the sets that look plucked from a fairy tale written by a drunk—it’s all still there, intact, like a wax museum of what was once brilliant. But the magic’s gone. Now it’s like seeing your childhood idol at a Star Trek convention: you recognize the costume, you even admire the effort, but you know something’s broken forever. And that something is, almost always, the script.

Because Beetlejuice Beetlejuice is, above all, a film written by someone who mistook “homage” for “copy and paste.” Miles Millar, the screenwriter, seems to have studied the first installment with the depth of a tourist at the Louvre: snapped a selfie with the Mona Lisa, memorized two lines from the audio guide, and bolted for a crêpe. The result is a hodgepodge of jokes that worked in the ‘80s because they were fresh, and now sound like the ramblings of a grandpa recounting war stories in a nursing home. “Nyah, nyah, nyah!” cackles Beetlejuice, twisting like a microwave spaghetti. Yes, Michael Keaton is still the best actor in the world playing a demonic clown, but even he seems aware he’s performing in a fanfic written by a Netflix algorithm.

Then there’s the matter of the new characters. Jenna Ortega as Astrid, Lydia’s rebellious daughter, is the only thing saving this movie from being a complete trainwreck. Not because the character’s deep—God forbid—but because Ortega has that gift of truly great actors: she makes even the most absurd dialogue sound like it was penned by Aaron Sorkin. The rest of the cast, however, seems lost in a limbo between camp and self-satisfaction. Winona Ryder reprises her role as Lydia like she’s reading a script in Braille, Catherine O’Hara is so over-the-top she feels like a Schitt’s Creek character teleported into a Burton nightmare, and Willem Dafoe… well, Dafoe’s always Dafoe, even when playing a ghost cop with a mustache drawn in MS Paint. It’s as if the casting followed the rule: “If in doubt, cast Dafoe and pray.”

Direction: Burton on Autopilot

Tim Burton directed this film like he was billing by the hour. There are flashes of his visual genius—that tracking shot of the attic, with the Winter River model lit like a satanic Christmas tree, is pure Burtonian magic—but they’re just that: flashes. The rest is a collage of recycled ideas, as if the director had rummaged through his “things that worked in the ‘90s” drawer and decided, hey, maybe if we mix this with some cheap CGI, no one will notice the lack of soul. The problem isn’t that Burton’s lost his touch; it’s that he no longer cares if he has it. Beetlejuice Beetlejuice is a film made by someone who’s seen too many movies about burned-out directors.

The pacing is another major casualty. The film lurches forward like a hungover zombie: a few minutes of chaotic frenzy (usually when Keaton’s onscreen), followed by long stretches of expository dialogue that sound like they were written by a teen horror trope generator. There’s a scene where the characters debate the rules of the Afterlife like they’re in a Dungeons & Dragons session, and it’s so forced you want to scream, “For God’s sake, give them an instruction manual and shut up!” But no, the script insists on dragging out the agony, as if the goal were to hit 105 minutes without putting the audience to sleep. Spoiler: it fails.

Performances: Keaton Saves the Skin (Again)

Michael Keaton is the sole reason this film doesn’t sink like the Titanic of sequels. His Beetlejuice remains a fascinating creature: a cross between a Faust demon, an encyclopedia salesman, and a five-year-old with Tourette’s. Keaton devours the scenery every time he appears, doing so with that mix of charm and menace only he possesses. The problem is the script gives him so little interesting material that he falls back on the same tricks from the first film: shouts, grimaces, and canned one-liners. It’s like watching a three-Michelin-star chef cooking with Lidl ingredients.

The rest of the cast does what they can with what they’ve got. Jenna Ortega, as mentioned, is the revelation: her Astrid is the only character who feels alive, even if she’s a walking cliché (the rebellious teen with a traumatic past—seriously?). Winona Ryder, meanwhile, seems to be in a different movie. It’s not that she’s bad—Ryder’s never bad—but her Lydia Deetz sounds like a parody of herself, as if someone told her, “Hey, Winona, do what you did in 1988, but with more tears.” Catherine O’Hara, on the other hand, is so overacted she might as well have been paid per grimace. And Justin Theroux… well, Theroux is a great actor, but here he plays a character so flat he could double as an ironing board.

Technical Department: The Only Thing That Doesn’t Stink

If there’s anything saving Beetlejuice Beetlejuice from total disaster, it’s its technical department. The cinematography by Χάρης Ζαμπαρλούκος is a visual delight: those acidic greens, those blood-reds, that lighting straight out of a fever dream. Burton still has an incredible eye for color, and he flaunts it here. The production design, meanwhile, is a marvel: Winter River is a town built from the scraps of an Edward Scissorhands set and a Stranger Things soundstage. And the practical effects, though mixed with CGI, have that old-school charm that makes the film feel more alive than most modern productions.

Danny Elfman’s score, of course, is another win. Elfman composes like he knows this film doesn’t deserve his talent but tries anyway. The main theme is a remix of the 1988 classic, but darker, more melancholic. It’s as if Elfman’s saying, “Yeah, I know this is an unnecessary sequel, but at least I’ll make it sound good.” And damn if he doesn’t. The problem is, in the end, even the best score in the world sounds hollow when what it’s backing is a script written with the feet.

The best

• Michael Keaton: Still the franchise’s soul. His Beetlejuice is a hurricane of charisma and chaos, even if the script doesn’t give him worthy material.
• Cinematography by Χάρης Ζαμπαρλούκος: Burton and color remain a match made in hell. The greens and reds in this film are a visual spectacle.
• Jenna Ortega: Astrid is the only character with any depth, and Ortega plays her with a naturalness that shines amid so many clichés.
• Production design: Winter River is a town straight out of a fairy tale written by a serial killer. Burton’s still the king of unsettling sets.
• Danny Elfman’s score: Though the film doesn’t deserve it, Elfman composes like he knows this is all that’ll be left of it.

The worst

• Miles Millar’s script: A Frankenstein’s monster of stale jokes, expository dialogue, and teen horror tropes. Feels like it was written by someone who watched the first film once and took notes on a napkin.
• Pacing: The film lurches like a hungover zombie: a few minutes of frenzy, followed by long stretches of boredom. Someone should’ve told Burton editing exists.

The new characters (except Astrid): Justin Theroux and the rest of the supporting cast seem lost in a limbo between camp* and self-satisfaction. Dafoe saves the furniture, but even he looks like he knows this is a mess. Half-digested nostalgia: Burton tries to recreate the magic of the first film but ends up parodying himself. It’s like seeing your childhood idol at a cosplay* convention.

• Repeated jokes: “Nyah, nyah, nyah!” doesn’t scare, doesn’t amuse, doesn’t do anything. It’s like hearing a grandpa tell the same joke for the tenth time. And no, it doesn’t get better with age.

The Verdict of Claqueta Ácida

Beetlejuice Beetlejuice is like that ex who comes back after thirty years: you recognize their virtues, you even get a little emotional seeing them, but soon you realize what you once loved now just makes you sad. Tim Burton’s made a film that reeks of stale nostalgia and easy money, but—against all odds—it has flashes of his old genius. Michael Keaton still reigns, Jenna Ortega saves the furniture, and the technical department is flawless. The problem is the script’s so weak even the Afterlife seems more interesting. It’s not a total disaster, but it’s a missed opportunity. And in cinema, as in life, second chances aren’t always a blessing. 💀
tweets_alternativos:

• "Michael Keaton en Beetlejuice Beetlejuice es como un vino caro en una botella de plástico: sigue sabiendo bien, pero el envase arruina la experiencia. @timburton, ¿qué te pasó? 🍷🗑️"
• "Jenna Ortega en Bitelchus 2 es lo único que salva este naufragio de nostalgia. @JennaOrtega, rescátanos de las secuelas innecesarias. 🚨 #SaveAstrid"
• "Warner Bros. y su fórmula mágica: si algo funcionó en los 80, hagámoslo otra vez. Aunque sea peor. @WarnerBrosSpain, el capitalismo no es una excusa. 💸💀"

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Theater Collateral Damage Report

Psychophysical impact certificate issued by Silvia Mordaz

⚡ Moderate Wear

🥱 Yawn-o-meter

2 amagos en el tramo intermedio; pestañeo pesado en las transiciones más innecesarias.

⏱️ Panic Clock Checks

Minuto 55 y minuto 75 (comprobando cuánto quedaba de suplicio).

😬 Cringe Index 1.1/10

☕ Caffeine Prescription

1 espressos para no dejarse vencer por la mediocridad cómoda.

💥 Derailment Point

"A mitad del segundo acto cuando la subtrama secundaria empezó a pesar más de lo que aportaba."